


i'm not falling for you (i already did)

by maih_em



Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: Also Christmas!, Birthday Parties, Fluff, M/M, Pub Quiz, all of the cowley squad are at thames valley, also peter has a baby daughter, and magicaclly also set in the neverland-arcadia time period, baking disasters, but then he came back, content warning: grief, due to circumstances that will become apparent, fancy is alive, morse has been pining for like 3 years, oh my god they were roommates, past relationship, peter did leave oxford, set post s5 into s6, trewlove never left
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-17
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-02-08 06:02:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 17,213
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21471220
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maih_em/pseuds/maih_em
Summary: October 20th, 1968 was supposed to be an entirely ordinary Sunday, much like the previous Sunday and the one before that. Except suddenly Peter Jakes, now with a baby girl in tow, stumbled back into Morse’s life as if he had never left, although it was clear from his dishevelled appearance that he very much had left, and it hadn’t gone fantastically for him.And it just so happened that Morse had been pining after him for the last three years. So there was that too.
Relationships: Peter Jakes/Endeavour Morse
Comments: 42
Kudos: 76





	1. honey, you're familiar

**Author's Note:**

> This idea came to me at 1am idk. There's a bit of jumping around timeline wise in the first couple chapters hence the date markers i've put throughout, but most of this is set between series 5 and 6 (except all of the Cowley squad including George and Shirley stayed together at Thames valley and the end of s5 doesn't exist). The flashback parts of the timeline pretty much just stretch from Ride to Arcadia.
> 
> Title inspired by a line from Crush Culture by Conan Gray.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Been up to anything interesting this morning?” Joan questioned, piling more vegetables onto her plate.
> 
> “I actually…” Morse hesitated, “I bumped into Peter Jakes on the way here. That’s why I was so late.”

**SUNDAY 20TH OCTOBER 1968**

For all intents and purposes, October 20th, 1968 was supposed to be an entirely ordinary Sunday, much like the previous Sunday and the one before that (aside from the weather, which had been spiralling faster and faster into the depths of winter as the weeks flew by). Cowley station was inundated with bog standard general-duties type cases which left Morse restlessly and rather morbidly awaiting a decent murder, even at the weekend.

After spending all month trying to get Morse to cook himself some proper meals, an exasperated Fred Thursday had decided to cut out the middle-man and invite him over for a Sunday roast because, if nothing else, Morse would eat out of guilt that Win spent all morning preparing it.

It was this exact motive that prompted Morse to head out early, so he had time to pick up some flowers and a bottle of wine for her trouble. Or, at least, he would have done, had he not bumped into Peter bloody Jakes at the end of his road.

His head had been predominantly in the clouds, so it had taken him an embarrassingly long time to realise that the heavily laden and lost-looking figure was, in fact, his old Sergeant.

“Jakes?” Morse called out, partially to get the other man’s attention and partially out of pure disbelief.

Peter turned and his face softened when he recognised his former colleague, but this did not detract from the harsh purple bags sitting under his eyes, the hair spiking up in places despite being slicked with enough product to fill a bathtub, the uncharacteristically un-ironed shirt and the two large suitcases filled close to breaking point which hung from white-knuckled hands.

That, and a baby.

“Morse,” he croaked, exhaustion seeping into his voice. Their eyes met briefly, and Morse felt something odd stir inside him that he couldn’t quite place.

“Let me take those for you,” he insisted, grabbing the suitcases from Peter’s weakening hands, “where are you headed?”

Somehow, when Morse had imagined this meeting happening (which had only been a couple of times, he told himself) they had flowed effortlessly into conversation as if almost two years hadn’t passed them by. It was wishful thinking, really, to expect that of Peter after only a few words, especially when tiredness seemed to have taken a firm hold of every inch of him. But it would be nice.

He should really count himself lucky; in some of his less pleasant imaginings, Peter had simply ignored him.

Peter stretched out his newly freed fingers, before resting them against the baby, who was fast asleep, perched in some kind of pouch that was strapped around his torso. “Well… I’m not actually sure, if I’m honest. I thought of going back to the CID before I realised it was a Sunday, and you lot probably wouldn’t be around.”

“You wouldn’t find much there anyway,” Morse grumbled, “there’s been a merger: Reading, Berkshire, City and County. It’s all Thames Valley Now; Cowley’s closed as of tomorrow.”

“Bloody hell.”

They fell into silence on the corner of the street, Morse teetering between asking about the baby, or about Peter himself, as the suitcase handles began to dig sharply into his fingers. “I didn’t think I’d see you again,” he finally said, but regretted it as soon as it came out of his mouth. It was a stupid thing to say: too friendly, too wistful, to soppy by far.

“Didn’t think I’d come back, really. Not for a while, at least until Rosie here was a bit older; she was a nightmare on the plane over.”

A paranoid part of Morse didn’t want to pry, except the larger nosy part of him really kind of did, so he finally asked, “what made you change your mind?”

Peter looked away for a moment, down at the concrete, at the top of Rosie’s head, up at the overcast sky, his lips trying to form a response, and suddenly Morse regretted asking him at all. “Hope,” he forced out, “she… she died, see, back in August. Didn’t know what else to do but come back here.”

“Oh.” Morse’s heart sank, and he was glad that the weight of the suitcases prevented him from instinctively placing a comforting hand on Peter’s shoulder, “God, I’m so sorry, I…”

“It’s not your fault, Morse; it’s fine. I’m fine.” (‘Fine’ here being used in the typical barely-two-months-widowed, everything’s falling apart, I wish I didn’t exist way, the kind of ’fine’ that Morse threw around until his throat was raw when he returned from prison, and the kind that filled Fred Thursday’s hospital room while he was recovering from a bullet-punctured lung. In other words, it was a lie, one carefully crafted by a man who knew he would have to answer questions like “how’s the wife doing” every time he bumped into an old friend.)

“Do you have anywhere to stay?” Peter shook his head.

Morse extended a weak smile to his once-colleague, half-friend, half-stranger. “Look, I’m on my way to dinner with the Thursdays, but you’re welcome to spend some time at my flat if you need some rest, unless you fancy joining me?”

There was only a faint trace of a smile on Peter’s lips, but far more in his eyes (not that Morse was looking that closely at them). “Thanks, yeah. That’d be lovely. A nap and a cup of tea.”

And so they walked down Morse’s street just like it was still ‘66, making small talk as if they hadn’t grown that little bit older without each other knowing, as if Morse didn’t feel exactly the same as he had done all that time ago, even now with a baby slung around Peter’s torso and the weariness of life pulling his shoulders into a lifeless downward droop.

Peter thanked him again for good measure once they reached Morse’s flat, and he visibly cheered up once the warmth in the air began to seep into his bones, and he was able to lift a sleeping Rosie from her confusing sling-seat contraption onto his lap.

He practically melted into the cushions and, by the time his cup of tea was finished brewing, Peter and Rosie were both fast asleep. 

Morse smiled, and tried to push the image out of his mind as he walked to the Thursdays' house, because he was almost definitely blushing.

\- - - - -

When he knocked on Inspector Thursday’s door, Morse realised not only that he was really very late, but he had also forgotten to buy a bottle of wine in the end, but he seemed to get away with it when Joan let him in.

“You took your time, didn’t you?” she chuckled, beckoning him through into the dining room, where Win was beginning to plate up steaming mounds of vegetables and roast beef while Sam and Thursday looked on in awe as if this was the first meal they’d seen in months.

Sam made a similar comment about Morse’s tardiness, which was soon silenced by his mother. They all laughed; Morse remembered quite how much family Oxford had given him.

“Been up to anything interesting this morning?” Joan questioned, piling more vegetables onto her plate.

“I actually…” Morse hesitated, “I bumped into Peter Jakes on the way here. That’s why I was so late.”

Thursday’s eyebrows shot up. “Well I never, how’s he doing?” Morse told them. About Hope and the baby and how both were fast asleep in Morse’s flat, feeling somewhat guilty about telling the entire group about Peter’s personal life.

It really lowered the mood of the entire meal.

Most of them seemed fine, once they had processed the original shock and ubiquitous sadness of the death of a mutual acquaintance, but Thursday seemed rather resigned for the rest of the afternoon. He’d been so hopeful for Jakes and his future in America, Morse supposed, just like the entire station had. And Thursday always grew such a fatherly appreciation for those who worked in the CID under him.

So, it made sense that a little bit of him grieved for what Peter had lost; Morse felt the same.

“You should have invited him over,” Win said, slightly later, once plates were scraped clean and quiet fell over the dining room. “It’d do him the world of good to spend time with people he knows.”

“I tried, he… he looked exhausted though, in no state for it. He was asleep the second he sat down,” Morse explained, trying to push away the image of Peter sprawled on his sofa, his shirt untucked and riding up at the side, hair messily sticking in all directions despite the product that coated it.

It wouldn’t do to be blushing, would it?

Not long after, they resigned to the living room, where Sam attempted to settle in front of the television before his father shot him a glare and pulled out a pack of playing cards from a drawer in the coffee table. Morse let the comfort of domesticity wash over him as they played, this feeling of belonging and family that he only felt with the Thursdays, and occasionally back at Cowley.

Like on sunny, heat-hazed days when sweat adhered hair to his neck, and Peter had insisted on smoking despite the humidity, and Strange offered a round at the pub which was accepted purely on the basis that the beer was colder than room temperature. Or on the Christmas Eve shift, when not even petty criminals wanted to bother the CID, so the majority of the day was spent exchanging well-wishes and mince pies whilst huddled around a single oil heater.

Or when Morse had been hidden away in his cabin in the woods, trying to avoid recognition as anything other than Pagan, as the slightly more weathered incarnation of the man he was ten years prior. When Thursday had arrived to make sure he wasn’t wasting away into dust and, days later, when Peter had knocked on his door with very flimsy excuses as to why he was there.

**SUNDAY 5TH MARCH 1967**

Morse, despite Thursday’s visit last week, wasn’t expecting a knock at the door. It startled him, to say the least, even though it was slightly muffled by the Verdi blaring from his record player. There was something about both working in the police and spending a stint in prison that heightened one’s sensitivity to things like that. He checked the state of his hair in the mirror and did his best to flatten the wrinkles that had developed in his shirt throughout his evening of lying in bed and wondering whether it was too early to move from beer to whiskey.

When Morse opened the door, both his mind and body froze because there in front of him, real as ever, was bloody _Peter Jakes_ dressed like he had come straight from the station, looking sheepish and tired. “Wotcher,” he murmured, looking into the middle-distance over Morse’s shoulder rather than making eye contact.

“Jakes.”

“Afternoon.” He swallowed thickly. “Thursday said you were here.”

“Just advertising my address on his office door, is he?”

“No. I asked. Wanted to come,” he said reluctantly, wincing at Morse’s sharp retort, “I wanted to know how you were.” _I wanted to see you_ hung in the air, unsaid (Morse was sure he imagined it).

It was inevitable, really. Once Monica had been persuaded to give up his address to Thursday, it was a downhill spiral from there until everyone and their mother were at his doorstep. Other visitors would have been met with a frosty response, but this was Peter. Peter, who he could never say no to, Peter, who he had grown to trust, Peter, about whom he knew more than he deserved to.

“Fancy a drink?” It was an easy way out, to break the ice with alcohol, it was an excuse to avoid eye contact by staring into their glasses as they discuss things both of them would normally rather remain unsaid.

“Thanks.”

Later, when Morse was slouched on his bed (which doubled up as a sofa on account of the size of the room) and Peter had made himself as comfortable as possible in the only chair, Morse looked at his sort-of-colleague properly for the first time since he had arrived. He was the same, mostly, as he had been before. Just as immaculately groomed, just as pale and sharp-looking, only slightly lankier. But there was something about him, something Morse couldn’t quite place; a discomfort that sat somewhere behind his eyes that could mean anything.

Peter looked lost.

“How have you been?” Morse asked him, delaying the inevitable moment when Peter would ask him what he’d been up to, and when he was coming back to work.

The other man took a gulp of his drink and shrugged. “Alright, I guess. Can’t complain. You?”

“Well I’m no longer sleeping in a cell so, all in all, things are fucking brilliant.” Morse didn’t mean it to sound so sharp, he really didn’t; he wished he could pluck the words right out of the air in which they hung. “Sorry,” he added, when he saw Peter wince.

“It’s okay. I shouldn’t have asked.”

“I’m not coming back, if that’s what you’re here for.”

“It’s not.”

“Need a top up?” Morse asked when the silence became stifling because, as always, alcohol was the best way to put a stop to uncomfortable tangents. It was also, incidentally, a fantastic way to disguise the blush that crept onto his cheeks every time Peter looked at him for too long or in the wrong way (which, regardless, Morse assured himself he had imagined).

Peter nodded, extending his hand to pass his empty glass to Morse. “You been mixing with the rich lot, then? The bloke up at the manor?”

“That’s Bixby,” Morse explained, although he had only spoken to the man once, “He knows an old college friend of mine; a few people I knew back then spend time up here. They all seem to think I’m still nineteen.”

“A distraction, eh?” Peter laughed (Morse wasn’t sure why). He carefully poured himself a small glass (he’d been drinking throughout the afternoon and it wouldn’t do to be drunk when Peter was here) and filled Peter’s glass to the same depth, before being interrupted with, “I’ll have a fuller glass this time, thanks. I am your guest after all.”

Morse rolled his eyes, because Peter couldn’t see him, and attempted to splash a little extra into the cup (attempted here being the operative word, as most of it ended up on his counter). “Oh, Christ, look at me,” he laughed, brushing the puddle away with the back of his hand.

“I have. Quite a lot, actually.”

Morse wasn’t drunk, was he? He mentally tallied how much he’d had since lunch. Tipsy, at most, but not tipsy enough to start hearing things. He put the bottle down, and bit his lip, feeling whatever knife edge they were balancing on start to tip. It was horribly risky.

Morse wasn’t sure he really cared.

“Are you…” he forced, his heart pounding, “flirting with me?”

A chair creaked behind him. Two footsteps. “A little, perhaps,” came a quiet voice, the warmth of which Morse could feel on the back of his neck.

He turned around to see Peter so temptingly close to him he felt his knees weaken, and it grew even closer as Peter slowly pressed him back into the counter with his own body, their lips inches apart.

Well _this_ was new. And not half bad, Morse thought, his heart beating thunderously in his ears. It would be a lie to say it had never crossed his mind, the idea of being so close to Peter like this, but it wasn't the kind of thought a man could entertain for very long. As Peter pressed up against him, Morse's traitorous subconscious reminded him of every glance he had ever taken at the other man, every look they had shared at work. Images of him leaning, statue-like, against walls and smoking as if it was an art, flooded into Morse's brain. Maybe he _had_ entertained the thought rather too much, in his own repressed sort of way, and now everything was pouring out at once.

He brought his thumb to Peter’s lips and trace them shakily, pressed their foreheads together to just _exist_ in the same bubble as the other man.

They shared a few breaths before Peter finally tipped his head to close the last sliver of distance between them, leaving Morse wondering absently why he had ever bothered kissing anyone other than Peter Jakes.

It was gentler than he’d expected, really. Peter was normally so rough and sharp and snappy, but his kisses were feather-light and cautious, punctuated by shuddering breaths. His arms worked their way tenderly around Morse’s waist and gripped the fabric there, anchoring them together as the two of them melted into one another.

Suddenly, it all made sense to Morse that they would end up like this. Everything buried under the surface that they could never bring themselves to put to words was emerging through soft touches and gasps. When Peter kissed him, it said _I’m sorry _and _I missed you_ and _I tried_ and, when Morse kissed back, it said _I wanted to help you_ and _I missed you too_.

When Morse pressed his lips to the shell of Peter’s ear, it meant _I think I love you_, but Peter didn’t need to know that just yet.

And before he knew he’d even moved, Peter was pressing him down into his crumpled sheets with soft hands and hot breath and a thousand variations of _please come back_.

**SUNDAY 20TH OCTOBER 1968**

Unsurprisingly, Morse performed poorly at cards, although the game was more for the sake of spending time together than anything else (except to Sam, whose competitive streak shone through brighter than ever). In the end, it was Joan who won, and it appeared that she had only done so to antagonise her brother.

It was late afternoon by the time he made his excuses and thanked Win for the thousandth time for her cooking. In return, she stuffed a Tupperware tub of leftovers into his hands as he was leaving, with strict instructions to heat it up for Peter when he got home. He promised that next time, he would remember to bring wine or flowers or, perhaps, a certain ex-detective sergeant and his daughter.

A hazy glow of orange was settling over Oxford as he wandered home, which had grown even more vibrant by the time Morse was opening his front door. There, just where he had left them, Peter and Rosie were sleeping soundly, the sunset painting them every shade of pink and red. As Morse shrugged of his jacket and shoes, he noticed the baby begin to stir, her tiny fists balling up and eyelids fluttering, seemingly preparing to wake up not only Peter but the entire bloody building.

Something overtook him then; some impulse carried his feet to where Peter was sleeping and plucked Rosie up of his chest. He rocked her gently in his arms until her breaths steadied once again and sat down in his armchair with the baby resting against him.

\- - - - -

Not long later, Peter finally stirred, rolling over onto his side as his eyes adjusted. Morse didn’t see his smile, because he was fast asleep with Rosie on his lap, a halo of sunset emanating from him as if he was the most important thing in the universe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was going to try really hard not to post this until i'd written the whole thing but i have no self control and the morse/jakes tag has been very empty lately which makes me SAD.
> 
> I almost feel bad about this concept because I’m using Hope and her death as a kind of plot device and I’m trying throughout this to make sure it comes across that Peter genuinely loved her and is grieving for her? Idk if I’m managing that but I really just want to acknowledge the love Peter has for both of them???
> 
> The kiss in the flashback segment is based on the almost-kiss between Morse and Rosalind Calloway in the Pilot because that is literally my Favourite TV Kiss Scene Of All Time With No Exceptions and I HAD to put it in there because it is a WORK. OF. ART.
> 
> All the chapter titles in this are Hozier lyrics because I’m a sucker for lyric based titles, mainly because I’m not imaginative enough to think of my own ones. This one is from ‘From Eden’!


	2. my heart's already sinned

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You didn’t strike me as the fatherly type.”
> 
> “No, I don’t suppose I would have done. I’m not, really.”
> 
> “It suits you.”

**MONDAY 21ST OCTOBER 1968**

Morse couldn’t remember the last time he had woken to the smell of cooking bacon. Come to think of it, he was certain that he didn’t have any bacon in the fridge as of about a month ago, and he doubted Peter had the ability to conjure cured meats from thin air.

“Finally awake, eh?” Peter called from the kitchen, where some definitely-real bacon was spitting angrily at him. A moment later, noting the panic in Morse’s expression, he added, “don’t worry, it’s quarter past seven, you’re not going to be late for work. I thought the smell of food might wake you up.”

As he rubbed his eyes and tried to stretch out his aching back, Morse noticed Rosie contently playing on the floor with some scrunched-up balls of newspaper and, though he wasn’t normally a big fan of children, found it rather adorable. He just hoped that none were the page with today’s crossword on it.

“Your fridge is absolutely barren, though, not that I expected any better,” Peter laughed. “Had to go out and buy some stuff at risk of you starving to death.”

“Um… thank you?” Peter smirked and tipped a few rashers each onto two plates alongside a slice of toast.

“Have a nice time last night?”

Morse nodded, smiling. It took him a moment of deliberation before he said, “I told them you were here.” After a moment, still feeling slightly guilty, he added, “I told them about… well, they asked how you were, I didn’t know what to say, I couldn’t _lie_ to them, and-”

“It’s fine, Morse.”

“I’m sorry, it wasn’t my place.”

“Morse, it literally couldn’t be more fine,” Peter insisted, trying not to smirk, “now untwist your bloody knickers and eat breakfast.”

To say that sitting down and eating a meal cooked by Peter Jakes felt odd was an understatement. It was domestic in a way that Morse certainly didn’t deserve, and friendly in a way he hardly recognised. Sure, they became closer in the months between Morse’s return to Cowley and Peter’s departure, but that was almost _two years ago_. Even back then, they were never _this_.

Not that _this_ was bad.

It just felt a little like a hallucination, was all. Something that Morse had dreamed of a very long time ago and always known was well out of reach. Something he still dreamed of now, when he made the mistake of allowing himself to.

“I noticed you stole my baby from me in my sleep,” Peter chuckled, hacking at a piece of bacon.

Morse looked back over at Rosie, whose hands and face were covered in black smudges of newspaper ink, and seemed to be enjoying herself thoroughly, nonetheless. “I think I woke her when I came back, she looked like she was about to cry the entire building down and I didn’t want her to wake you up, so I tried to settle her back down again.”

“You didn’t strike me as the fatherly type.”

Heat rose rapidly in Morse’s cheeks, and he wondered how he ever got by when he and Peter still worked together, because even the most mundane of comments turned him to utter jelly. “No, I don’t suppose I would have done. I’m not, really.”

“It suits you.”

Morse swallowed thickly, starting to panic. He didn’t have the emotional capacity on a Monday morning to be misinterpreting every single word that left Peter’s mouth. Feeling his face grow redder by the second, he hurried down the last of his breakfast, before using the excuse of his almost-lateness to hurry out of the room and get dressed.

How could Peter still get to him so much after all this time? It had been _years_ since whatever had (almost) happened between them. And now Peter was married (or at least _had been_) with a child and a home and a life across the Atlantic, meanwhile Morse hadn’t changed a single bit. Still the very same pining, semi-alcoholic, queer old mess that he had been when Peter left.

Morse dressed himself hastily, trying to ignore the noises of Peter washing the dishes which emanated from the kitchen. “Right,” he said, finally, pulling on a coat over his blazer, having noticed the light drizzle outside, “I’m off, then. Feel free to do… well, anything really. There’s a spare door key on the hook in the kitchen, and I’ll probably be back at around six unless anything serious pops up.”

“Right. Thanks.” Peter leant against the wall (with his shirt sleeves rolled up, for Christ’s _sake_) and watched as Morse fumbled around with his shoelaces. He hadn’t been bothered to untie last night; it was a surprise he’d even bothered to take them off, really. He could feel the eyes boring into him from across the room (no he couldn’t; he was imagining it, he had to be). When Morse stood back up, their eyes met for a moment and it left him feeling slightly dazed, but it was over before he even had time to process it. “Well, best not be late then, Detective Constable Morse.”

“Sergeant, actually.”

“At bloody last.”

\- - - - -

Morse walked all the way to the car park of Cowley CID before he remembered that it now lay empty, aside from the last few piles of things that needed to be either filed, transferred to Thames Valley, or disposed of. Seeing it so empty on a Monday morning, no cars parked, no bustle, no cigarette smoke hanging in the air, felt wrong. It was like a chapter of not only Morse’s career, but his life was on the cusp of being boarded up and demolished and, with it, every little memory that was tied to specific sights and sounds and scents that only existed _here_.

Thursday’s car used to be parked over there. He spent countless late nights in that office poring over paperwork or evidence. Peter once kissed him just around that corner, when they’d both worked late one stifling Friday night.

Thames Valley, Morse thought as he finally arrived there, was blank. Walking up its steps, he felt absolutely nothing. It was far bigger and fuller, too, crawling with staff he didn’t know, new sergeants and constables all over the place who he would rather not have to trust. He had a new desk at the edge of a large central area buzzing with detectives from various city and county CIDs, but it was empty and far too grey, like everything else.

The new station was cold and clinical, despite the morning sunlight streaming over him from a nearby window. Even distantly familiar faces did little to erase his uneasiness, because every time he closed his eyes, he was back at Cowley with its warm wood and golden sunlight and smiling friends and Peter Jakes.

“Morse!” came a bright voice from behind him. Trewlove, despite her initial doubts, had decided to stay in Oxford for the time being. Having spent the past month or so by Fancy’s hospital bed as he recovered from a bullet wound not unlike Thursday’s a few years prior, she had realised that valuing her career and valuing the person she loved were not mutually exclusive. She’d grown fond of Oxford’s charm, in any case. “This place is bloody huge, isn’t it?”

Her eyes were bright, and she looked around the room as if she actually wanted to be there (oh, to be young). Morse supposed it felt a step closer to London than Cowley had. More official, like they were part of something _bigger_.

“It’s weird, that’s what it is. And gloomy,” Morse grumbled cynically. “How’s Fancy been holding up?”

“He’s coming along well, actually, now that he’s been discharged. The doctors said he needs a week more rest at home before he starts working again, which is driving him _completely_ up the wall. To be honest, I’m just glad he didn’t end up with any shrapnel bouncing around inside him like Inspector Thursday did.” Morse offered her an understanding smile as he sat down at his new desk, disapprovingly glaring at its layout for a moment before beginning to move things around.

He was faintly aware of a door opening and closing behind him, and soon a familiar demanding voice, “You’ve got time for a chinwag when you’re not on the clock, Sergeant.” It was DS Box, who Morse had briefly hoped wouldn’t be transferred to Thames Valley, before he mentally repressed the man out of existence entirely. “We’ve got calls about a protest outside a department store on George Street down Jericho way, something about equal pay. Fancy popping over to clear it up? A couple units are already on their way, but you can take the WPC with you for some extra… manpower, if you will.”

“The WPC has a _name_, you pillock.” Trewlove hissed under her breath, sharing a frustrated eye-roll with Morse as Box sauntered away like he owned the bloody station. Ronnie Box wasn’t someone you fought, but rather someone you _endured_.

Despite their frustration, Morse and Trewlove obediently grabbed their coats and made to the car park to leave for Jericho. As she slumped down into the passenger seat, Trewlove prompted, “I heard Thursday saying something about Peter being back in Oxford?”

“Mm,” Morse nodded, only half paying attention as he reversed the car out of its parking space. “I bumped into him yesterday, he and Rosie stayed over at my place last night, actually.”

“Rosie?”

“His daughter.”

“How about Hope?” she added, not noticing Morse’s wince as he tried to prepare the response that he still didn’t feel deserving to give. “I’m assuming your sofa hasn’t got room for three.”

“Hope…” Morse swallowed thickly, focusing on the road ahead of him. “Hope died.”

There was a heavy pause. “Oh. Shit.”

“That’s an eloquent way of putting it.”

Trewlove let out a shaky sigh. “Jesus, how long ago? How’s he doing?”

“Back in August, I think? And, well, he _looks_ a mess, but he seems for the most part to be getting along okay. Although I haven’t had a chance to really talk to him yet. Not sure he’d want to anyway,” Morse supposed. Something in him had been desperately wanting Peter to open up to him about it, which was probably the same part of him that wanted to do everything in its power to protect Peter Jakes at all times. The more logical side of Morse’s brain reminded him that he was completely useless at comforting people and that Peter had no obligation to talk about Hope to anyone, to _him_ especially.

“Well if he feels up to it, I’d love to catch up with him at some point. It’s been a damn long time since we’ve had Peter on our team in the pub quiz, hasn’t it?” she suggested with a grin.

Shirley Trewlove was an utter genius; Morse made a point of telling her so as they pulled up alongside a protest that neither of them really wanted to stop.

\- - - - -

Morse returned home from work later that day to find Peter sprawled on the sofa, feeding Rosie a bottle of formula while a grainy country and western film played on the television. The sun had evidently started to set since he’d sat down, because none of the lights were on despite the gloom, and the flickering glow of the screen played on the faces of both father and daughter.

He was reluctant to ask Peter to the quiz night, not wanting to push him into things too fast and still not convinced the man actually enjoyed his company. Max and Shirley would be there, he made sure to add, and George, whom Peter had never met. That was it; no pressure, no expectations.

It turned out that Morse had really overthought the whole thing: Peter loved the idea, despite being slightly apprehensive to face people he hadn’t spoken to in years, given everything that had happened since. “But what about Rosie?”

Thursday, who had been prepared for a rather boring night in after a boring, crime-free day at work, took approximately no persuading at all to babysit Rosie for the evening. Perhaps it was something about having two adult children that made a man miss having little ones in the house.

So, in summary, Morse was one step ahead on that front.

Peter showered before they went out, which left Morse sitting with Rosie on his lap trying to figure out how babies worked. She stared at him a lot, big open eyes (Peter’s eyes) gazing into his, puffy fingers hanging out of her mouth. Sometimes she would grab his tie and try to play with it, not registering that it was attached to a real human being with a sore neck already on account of his horrendous posture. It was baffling, really, to watch this tiny entity gargle half-formed words and grab at whatever was in her reach, and to see characteristics of both Peter and what little he remembered of Hope in her face as she did so.

Perhaps he’d been too cynical earlier in his life. Kids were quite tolerable.

“Are you just going in your work clothes?” Peter laughed as if to say, _‘of course you would be’_, as he finished pulling on a fresh shirt (fucking hell) and ran a hand through his half-damp hair until it was sticking up in all directions (_fucking_ _hell_).

Morse rolled his eyes, mainly because it made him avert his gaze for a moment.

He noticed, as they were leaving, that Peter hadn’t put any product in his hair yet. Morse had never really seen it like this, fluffy and freshly dried, bouncing up and down as he walked and dear _God_ it was glorious. So glorious that he wanted to feel it between his fingers. It made his breath catch in his throat every time he saw it. It really wasn’t fair.

_Get a grip._

They delivered Rosie to the Thursdays’ house, and Peter’s eyes lit up as he watched Win fuss over his little girl. There was a sense of reluctance, too, because it was likely that Peter hadn’t been apart from Rosie much, if at all, since Hope’s death. It was almost as if he didn’t feel like he deserved a night off.

Jim Strange called out to the two of them from their usual corner table in the Lamb and Flag, welcoming Peter with an enthusiastic handshake. The rest of the old Cowley team greeted him just as eagerly, even Fancy, who had only heard of Peter Jakes through anecdotes. Although Fancy did everything eagerly, much to the distress of his barely healed stitches, and to Trewlove, for that matter, who had to remind him every five minutes that he was still on thin fucking ice with regard to being allowed to leave his bed.

“Look what the cat dragged in,” Max noted, grinning regardless, and waved a piece of paper at Morse. “You slowcoaches almost missed the picture round!”

He waved a piece of paper in front of Morse’s face which, upon closer inspection, contained photos of guitarists from various bands that he definitely didn’t know. “Ah, yes, because I’m a real asset to the team in pop music rounds, aren’t I?”

“I’ll have a go,” Peter grumbled, snatching the paper from Morse and a pencil from Max, poring over the three photos which were as yet unnamed. In an attempt to make himself useful in some other way, Morse approached the bar and bought a beer for him and Peter, feeling déjà vu wash over him for the millionth time in the past two days as tiny memories from two years prior bubbled up and overflowed.

He could see from where he stood the very table at which Peter had drunk himself close to death during the Blenheim case, something which he would rather not relive on an evening that was supposed to be enjoyable.

When he returned to the table with two overflowing beers, Peter was already arguing with George about whether the lady pictured in question seven was called Isabelle or Isabella, Jim was under the impression that she was called neither despite having no other logical thoughts to back up his point, and Shirley was intently listening to Max rant about a parasite that had recently been attacking his roses. It felt like home.

Aside from a few disagreements, the team worked far better than expected, although there was a point towards the end of the night when Fancy and Strange had started talking about a recent football match just as question eight of the history round was announced, leading to a chorus of yells and Shirley throwing her hand over George’s mouth in protest.

Rather satisfyingly, they ended up winning after a tie break question about human anatomy had conveniently played to Max’s strengths. Having barely managed to keep up throughout the evening, George suddenly took a much keener interest in proceedings now that a box of chocolates had been won. (He made sure to avoid all of the coffee ones.)

The team spilled out onto the chilly Oxford streets soon after, George throwing his coat over Shirley’s shoulders as they said their goodbyes. Morse couldn’t help but notice that he’d taken the remainder of the chocolates with him.

“So, Fancy’s…” Peter started once the two of them were on their way to pick up Rosie, “a character.”

“He’s always like that.”

Peter chuckled. “He’s lovely, just makes me think a bit too much of me when I first joined the force.”

“Really?”

“I’m honestly wondering whether we’re just the same person ten years apart, it’s bloody terrifying. As soon as I had ‘detective’ in front of my title I thought I was the king of the fucking world.”

“And you don’t now?” Morse teased.

Peter elbowed him so hard that he lurched halfway into the road before a soft, warm hand grabbed his coat and pulled him back on track.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahh I’m worried that it looks like I’m just completely overlooking Peter’s grief don’t worry guys it’s coming I have plans. I also have plans for Morse to stop fucking pining 24/7 but you might have to wait a couple chapters for that...
> 
> Also I really flew through writing this chapter and then got stuck one bloody scene from the end for two entire fucking weeks it truly was An Ordeal I stared at the line ‘you slowcoaches almost missed the picture round’ most evenings for a fortnight and absolutely NOTHING came to me I was going mad.
> 
> This chapter’s title is a lyric from Someone New by Hozier who really is out here providing fuel for my 1am writing sessions.


	3. the purest expression of grief

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Well, there didn’t seem to be much else you could buy a one year old,” Morse shrugged. “I’ll save the complete works of Shakespeare for her second birthday, shall I?”
> 
> [In which Peter celebrates his daughter's birthday by almost setting fire to Morse's flat.]

**SATURDAY 9TH NOVEMBER 1968**

As happy as Peter was to sleep on the sofa, and as happy as Morse was to host him, it seemed impractical for the arrangement to continue forever. (Much to the dismay of Morse, who had grown rather used to the sight of Peter washing the dishes with his shirt sleeves rolled up and his stupid bloody perfect hair sticking up at all angles. Or not. Because he certainly hadn’t been looking.)

It didn’t take Peter long after returning to Oxford to realise that he wanted it to be his permanent home again. He was currently renting a small bedsit not far away, which Morse visited for a drink when he wasn’t busy with work. He still spent his remaining free time worrying about what Peter was doing with himself, just him and a baby, no job and very little to anchor him down.

So he hadn’t been sleeping well, basically.

Today, however, was Rosie’s first birthday, and Morse invited Peter over on account of him having an actual kitchen to cook in rather than just a stove and a sink in the corner of a room.

Morse woke with a shiver to find most of his quilt hanging off the bed, and a vignette of frost forming on the window. He sat up, bleary eyed, pulling his blanket up around him as he shifted to look out onto the street.

A thin, icy fog filled the air, and plumes of smoke rose from chimneys as far as he could see. It was the kind of morning when you could feel the approach of Christmas long before the advent calendars were brought out. If it wasn’t for the perfectly clear sky, glowing blue and purple and gold and orange in the sunrise, Morse might even have predicted snow.

Eventually, he forced himself out from under the covers and pulled on a faded quarter-zip jumper, before padding into the kitchen to make himself some tea. Perhaps, if the bread wasn’t developing any mould, he’d even have some toast.

\- - - - -

When Peter knocked on the door, Morse had just finished wrapping a rather unimaginative gift of a soft toy and some silly plastic cups that could be stacked into a tower or nestled like Russian dolls (which he totally hadn’t been distracted by for ten minutes before he packaged them in tissue paper and string).

“I’ve brought the wherewithal for baking, because I know for a _fact_ you’ve never owned a cake tin or greaseproof paper in your life,” he grumbled, setting down a large canvas bag by the door and absent-mindedly placing Rosie into Morse’s arms so that he could remove his coat. (It was nice, he couldn’t lie. Rosie was warm and soft and smiling, and apparently Peter _trusted_ him with her.) “And ingredients, before you ask. I assume your cupboards are a complete wasteland, fucking tumbleweeds and all.”

“I’ve got eggs, I think,” Morse said, “and at least two potatoes that haven’t started growing roots.”

“Dinner sounds delicious then.” As Peter moved to the kitchen and began unloading his bag onto the worktop, he called back, “carrot cake alright with you?”

Morse shrugged. “Well, it’s Rosie’s birthday, not mine.”

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

Baking with Peter was… a thing. Morse felt ready to melt as he helped Peter measure out the ingredients (whilst also keeping an eye on Rosie as she crawled around his thoroughly un-babyproofed house). He felt like this was all some bloody joke. Like everything he didn’t deserve and could never have served to him on a platter, teased under his nose, ready to fade out of his life until he could barely remember how it looked or felt. Something he’d wished for a long time ago, that he’d seen glimpses of but never been able to call _his_.

“Can you sort out the carrots for me?” Peter asked, a dusting of flour having settled on the front of his shirt already (Morse wanted to brush it off for him. Trying not to grate bits of his own finger into the cake mix was a welcome distraction, really. He rolled his shirtsleeves up with absolutely, definitely no thought whatsoever about whether Peter was watching him.)

Aside from ending up covered in most of the ingredients, there had been no major issues by the time they were sliding a tin of cake mix into the oven. “There’s not point setting a timer, is there? We’ll just keep an eye on it,” Morse suggested as he wiped the worst of the mess from his hands.

“Sure.” And then Peter put on some music; one of the few more modern records that Morse owned (none of which he had actually bought, they just seemed to appear over time) because they were pretty sure that an opera about murder, adultery and betrayal wasn’t quite the right tone for at a child's birthday.

Peter sat Rosie down on his lap and watched her, entranced, as she flailed her arms about to the beat of the music, humming along to the tune as the chorus repeated. “She loves music,” he said after a while, when Rosie had calmed down and was resting her head against his chest, “she went through a phase at about three months old when the only thing that’d put her to sleep was bloody Johnny Cash. She had her mother’s taste, clearly.”

“What was she like? I… I never got to meet her before you left.” (_Ah, yes, great idea, ask him about his fucking dead wife why don’t you? That’s going to turn out fantastically._)

There was a short pause in which Morse thought he could feel the air between them practically humming with tension, but eventually Peter smiled at him. There was a lot more than _smiling_ in his expression; it felt like he was looking right through Morse’s head and out the other side. “Well, she was perfect,” he sighed. “She was everything. I can’t even describe her she was just… she was just so _her_. So stubborn and funny and beautiful. I wish you’d had the chance to meet her; I don’t know whether you’d have wanted to, back then, but she’d have loved you.”

_Whether you’d have wanted to. Back then_. Morse couldn’t imagine it, really, saying yes to Peter’s offer of coming back to the Lamb and Flag to see him off before he flew to America. Smiling and greeting Hope like he didn’t have to swallow back his own selfish frustration every time he thought about her.

This was going in a direction he hadn’t intended, and Peter was looking at him with an expression that was far _more _than it should have been. All full of things he wasn’t prepared to hear Peter talk about, no matter how cryptically he did so.

Biting down on his cheek until he tasted blood, Morse tried frantically to stop his thoughts running to places they didn’t need to go. “I…” he fumbled for something to change the subject with, “um, I’ve bought something for Rosie, it’s not much, but-” he reached behind him to pick up the parcels he’d wrapped earlier, and passed it to Peter.

“You really didn’t need to.”

“They’re only small, Peter, please don’t worry about it.”

Peter looked like he wanted to worry about it. But instead, he handed one parcel to Rosie with the warmest expression Morse had ever seen him wear. She grabbed at the paper with clumsy fingers, gargling happily, and tore it apart as best she could.

Rosie squealed in delight when she uncovered a small stuffed toy (it vaguely resembled a cat but was so fluffy that it didn’t have many identifying features).

She clung to the cat firmly as she unwrapped the second present, which she didn’t quite understand until Peter showed her how the cups piled on top of each other. From that point on, she was content working on her little multicoloured stack, the soft toy sat beside her as she did so.

“Thanks,” Peter looked back at Morse from the floor. “Like I said, you really didn’t need to.”

“It’s fine, honestly. I’m just glad she likes them; I felt a bit lost in the toy shop.”

“They’re perfect. You did a great job.”

“Well, there didn’t seem to be much else you could buy a one year old,” Morse shrugged. “I’ll save the complete works of Shakespeare for her second birthday, shall I?”

Peter laughed (which was rather lovely of him) but soon froze, eyebrows furrowing in confusion. “Do you smell burning?”

Morse stopped, sniffed curiously, and then let his eyes meet Peter’s. “Fuck,” they said in unison. The two of them rushed into the kitchen to find an even stronger smell of smoke hanging around the oven. “Do you have any oven gloves?”

“I… I don’t think so?”

Peter sighed tensely. “Course you bloody don’t. A cloth, then? Anything’ll do at this point.”

Morse found a tea towel discarded on the counter and used it to grab the cake tin, flinging it onto the top of the stove when the heat crept through the fabric to his skin. Once a couple of windows had been opened to let the smoke out, the two of them stared silently at the blackened top of the cake.

“Perhaps I should have invested in a timer,” Morse admitted sheepishly.

Quiet fell over the kitchen as Morse waited for Peter to start laughing, to make light of the situation as they tried to think of ways to salvage the lump of charred sponge. Instead, he heard what could only be described as a stifled sob. “Fuck,” Peter choked, turning away in embarrassment, “sorry, ignore me. I’ll just be a sec.”

“Peter?”

“Fuck!” he yelled to himself.

Morse ached to reach out and soothe him but stayed warily back, quickly getting out of his emotional depth. “It’s okay, we can easily make another one-”

“That’s not bloody it, though, it’s… I can’t fucking _do_ _anything_ right!”

“Peter, do you want to sit down?” The other man nodded angrily, with aggressive hands rubbing tears from his eyes.

Eager to avoid upsetting Rosie, who was still keenly stacking her coloured cups, Morse guided Peter into his bedroom and gestured that he sat down on the bed. “She should fucking _be here_,” he whined, and it was clear who he was referring to. “I can’t… it’s… I’m not good enough without her!”

“But you _are_. You’re doing so well,” Morse insisted, fighting the instinct to gather Peter up in his arms. “You don’t have to be perfect to be a good father. Rosie’s lucky to have you.”

Peter sank onto the bed until he was lying on his side, back against the wall, body wracked by leftover sobs. “Lie down,” he murmured, almost too quietly to hear. Morse did as he was told, and clumsily lay down to face Peter.

He looked so peaceful that he could have been asleep if not for the streaks of tears running down his cheeks and the occasional shudder that overcame him as his tears subsided. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, “I’m just really fucking scared. I-I can’t be what Rosie needs me to be, not on my own.”

“You can, I promise. And you’re never alone, not in Oxford.”

As his body began to relax, tension finally releasing from his shoulders, Peter’s hand crept out and began to fiddle absent-mindedly with Morse’s tie. _What? _Morse stared at it, watched Peter’s hands playing with the material. Every inch of him felt like it was buzzing.

“I think…” Peter murmured after a tense silence, “after I came back, while I was staying with you, I felt so much better; change of scene, I suppose. I thought it had all gone away but… well now the fucking novelty’s worn off hasn’t it? It’s not a holiday anymore this is just my life again and I’m so fucking _sad_ all the time and I… I don’t know what to do with myself.”

“Oh.” _Fantastic advice, idiot._ Morse shifted slightly, lest his arm drop off from lack of circulation. “Look, grief isn’t linear like that. It’s stubborn and it does whatever it wants with you for however long it pleases, but that’s what your brain _needs_ right now. And if it’s making you want to curl up in a ball for a day or just to be completely useless, there’ll always be someone around to take Rosie off your hands for a while. Any of the old Cowley lot would be up for it, Mrs Thursday and Joan, too.”

“Mhmm.” Peter hummed, and held Morse’s gaze for just a few seconds too long to be comfortable before sitting up and rubbing the half-dried tears from his face. And then the moment was gone, as Peter swallowed back whatever he had been feeling to return to a much calmer expression. It was almost as if Morse could watch it disappear, that sliver of vulnerability, behind steely eyes and a strained smirk. “Why don’t we cut the black bits off that bloody cake and see what’s left?”

**FRIDAY 21ST APRIL 1967**

Morse, being who he was, held onto the hope that things would change when he returned to work at Cowley after his long absence. On the Peter front, that was.

After waking up together to a dewy spring morning in the lake house, Peter had made his excuses rather awkwardly and they didn’t actually talk again until Morse’s first day back. He invited Peter out for a drink after work (with the promise of _more_ hidden between his words). Peter declined.

He declined the next day as well, so Morse promptly decided that whatever they had been for that brief evening would never be replicated and he resigned to pining for the rest of his natural life.

The following week, though, had been unseasonably hot. They were driving back together from a long domestic violence case up in Sunnymead which had taken the energy out of both of them. Perhaps it was this, a combination of sun and heat and exhaustion, that had led Peter to pull into a backroad and crash their lips together in the passenger seat. The way he mumbled “_missed you_” against Morse’s neck had been enough to convince him that this time it was real and forever.

It became a rhythm, once the ice had been broken. Every few days, after work, they would retreat to the pub together, and later to one of their flats. It was never arranged or discussed, it merely happened, and Morse was enjoying himself far too much to stop and think about it.

‘I love you’ was on the tip of his tongue for weeks. Even at work. Even at that stupid bloody supermarket when Peter had told him he was leaving.

He said that it had to happen. That it was the right thing for him and Hope. That he was excited about it. Morse was pretty sure he left a piece of his heart on aisle two that day, nestled between the canned soups and the pasta sauces.

It was his own fault, really; _he’d_ only gone and fallen head over heels for someone who clearly saw him as just one option of many. Peter didn’t ask for love, didn’t want it, that much was clear. _It was just fun_.

This was what left Morse standing outside the Lamb and Flag, shaking Peter’s hand and wishing him all the best with his pregnant wife and life in America, with every part of him aching, wishing he could have it his own way and then biting back his own bitter selfishness.

They held each other’s gaze for a little longer than friends should, and then that was it.

It was all Morse deserved anyway.

**SATURDAY 9TH NOVEMBER 1968**

About half of the cake turned out to be salvageable after Peter hacked at it with a knife, and it ended up slightly asymmetrical, but that was nothing a thick layer of buttercream couldn’t disguise.

And a single candle, placed in the centre and lit with a match. “Why don’t you get Rosie; I’ll carry it in,” Morse insisted. She was on Peter’s lap at the table when Morse switched off the main light and approached with the cake. It felt odd, all this performance for a baby who didn’t understand a bit of it. Just him and Peter baking together, singing happy birthday together, eating together like this was something they would normally do. Like they were _ever_ this close, this domestic, this comfortable before Peter had left.

It was wrong to think like this. Stupid. This was a child’s birthday, not his own personal bloody pity party.

There was a time when that, perhaps, was justified. When he could watch Peter at work and let his mind drift off. Let himself think about the two of them. About Peter and how his fingers curled around a cigarette, how his hair fell when it hadn’t been firmly gelled back. But that time ended when Peter chose Hope and left and started a family, and that was a good thing; it was what Peter needed and deserved.

They were nothing. They are nothing. They’re friends. To think any more than that would be to violate the trust that Peter still (for some reason) had in him.

“You alright, Morse?”

“Fine. Thanks.”

It was late now, by Rosie’s standards at least. They’d eaten most of the cake, and Rosie had been sitting in front of the television watching what seemed to be a technicolour puppet acid trip, but Peter insisted was a wholesome kid’s show. Morse’s offer of a few glasses of whiskey had even been accepted in the late afternoon, just after the sun had slipped below the skyline.

He almost wanted to ask Peter to stay. It was stupid, he knew that all too well, but it was tempting nonetheless, because regardless of how he felt for Peter, it was just nice to _exist_ in the same space as someone. To wake up to the sounds of another person already up, to feel their warmth in the furniture and in the air. There was only so much a couple of records could do for him on a cold evening.

“It’s getting late,” Peter said, finally, having put it off for as long as he could. He nodded towards a bleary-eyed Rosie “And I should get this little one home before she starts getting grouchy.”

He passed Rosie into Morse’s hands as he gathered up his things, which had ended up scattered about the flat over the course of the day. The baking things were shoved unceremoniously into one bag (although he insisted Morse should keep the last slice of cake) and Rosie’s presents into another.

“Thanks for having us today,” Peter smiled, pulling on his coat. “And for… for the disaster aversion earlier. And- well, just thank you.” Morse nodded for lack of any coherent reply and passed a half-asleep Rosie into one of his arms.

Before he had time to register it, Peter was pulling him into a hug with his free arm, fingers curling at the back of his neck in a way that made him think of moments long repressed. It was over before he had a chance to really enjoy it, leaving nothing but cold emptiness in its absence.

“See you soon.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok i'd written almost all of this before christmas i swear but the bit between the cake going into the oven and the cake leaving the oven was just Not Working For Me and i've been staring at it for WEEKS trying to put words in a recogniseable order.
> 
> Also it got a bit sad which was the intention but also i don't like making peter sad. I promise things are looking up for them in the next 2 chapters
> 
> chapter title is a lyric from foreigner's god by hozier


	4. the dark caress of someone else

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Christ, someone’s full of festive spirit, aren’t they?”
> 
> “Well you’re the one who invited me over.”
> 
> “Yes, and I’m not going to sit here and watch you feel sorry for yourself.” And then, after talking himself out of it, then back into it, then out of it again in a matter of seconds (and it really was one of the most spectacularly awful ideas he’d ever had) Peter blurted out, “dance with me.”

**TUESDAY 24TH DECEMBER 1968**

“I just know it’s him…” Thursday had been saying for the past hour, pacing in and out of his office to look at the wall of evidence before returning to take a draw from his pipe. “I can feel it in my bones.”

“I don’t think your bones would be sufficient evidence in court, Sir,” Morse huffed as he leant back in his chair.

They had all been hoping that some miracle would bring this triple homicide case to a close before Christmas, but time was short, and evidence was thin on the ground. Everybody who wasn’t already on holiday leave were tearing their hair out to find the killer before it began eating into their festive plans.

Thursday grumbled something under his breath and began shrugging on his coat. “We should try talking to him one last time. Think I’ll go mad if I have to read over these notes again. Morse?”

\- - - - -

The drive over to Binsey was treacherous to say the least, what with a hazy mist of sleet filling the air. They two of them barely spoke, both preoccupied with the numbness of icy fingers, the frustration of a difficult case and the looming dread that they’d still be thinking about it over Christmas.

The suspect, Frank Tucker, lived in a large but rundown cottage on Binsey Lane, one which could be quite beautiful were it not for the person who owned it. Morse and Thursday had visited him once before, at the start of the case about three weeks prior, but the man had been stubborn and rather cryptic in his answers.

Now, as Thursday pounded on his door and announced that they were from the police, Morse couldn’t help but feel a sense of dread running through his veins. “Mr Tucker?” he called out, but there was no sign of movement from inside. A fire was glowing in the hearth, though, and Tucker’s car was sat in the driveway under a layer of frost, so the man was almost certainly home.

Morse wandered around to the back of the house, through a barricade of overgrown weeds, as Thursday continued to knock. He fought his way past shrubbery until he reached the back door, which sat slightly ajar. He called back to Thursday as he walked inside.

Tucker’s kitchen was small but cosy, a kettle whistling away on the stove. Morse noted a pile of dirty dishes in the sink, and half a fresh loaf of bread on the countertop. When he heard a slight shuffle behind him, Morse went to turn around, startled.

And that was about the last thing he did before something hit him very squarely and _very _hard on the side of his face.

\- - - - -

As he noticed a light snow begin to fall, Peter decided he needed some fresh air. There was only so much time a man could spend inside his own home, and the sofa seemed to have developed a permanent dent where he sat for most of the day. Rosie was getting restless, in any case, and she’d never seen snow before.

He had to dig out a small bag of Rosie’s winter clothes from a cardboard box he hadn’t yet unpacked since moving into his new flat and wrap her up despite her noisy protest.

She seemed to calm once they were outside, her little gloved hands reaching up to catch snowflakes from the sky. Nothing like winter in Wyoming, of course (not that he’d ever seen it) but there was something warm and fairy-tale in the way Oxford’s rooftops gathered snow.

He set off down the road with very little thought of a destination, glad for the support of the pram as he struggled across icy patches of the pavement.

Peter thought of Morse, who no doubt was out without any warm layers. Of Max picking over a frost-covered corpse somewhere, perhaps by a lake or on a sideroad. Thursday shielding his pipe from the sleet, it’s smoke his only source of warmth. A strange part of him missed the work and the family it had given him, the satisfaction of catching a killer. Making fun of the stilted way that Morse typed, or sharing a cigarette break with him at lunch. But a lot of him was glad to have left it behind. The danger, for one, didn’t sit well with him now he had Rosie to think about. And he still had his Cowley family, even if he didn’t work with them. Their quiz nights had become a regular fixture, although the larger the group, the more likely they were to argue their way out of a correct answer.

Something stung at the thought of Morse still working there, though, where he could fling himself into harm’s way at any opportunity. It had been easier to manage when they’d worked together, and he was one of the first to know when something went wrong. Now, he knew that if Morse got hurt, he wouldn’t know for hours, perhaps a whole day. It was unsettling.

And on that note, just as Peter realised that he’d absently walked all the way to Castle Gate, he saw George Fancy running down the stairs to meet him. “’ve you heard anything from Morse?” he panted, looking decidedly flustered. _Fuck. Not good, not good, not good, very bad._

“What?”

“He went out with the Inspector earlier. We got a call that Morse was in hospital, but no one knows what’s up.”

Given the direction of his thoughts before this interruption, George’s news was hardly comforting to Peter. He felt himself tense up as he processed what he’d heard, his stomach lurching. “Bloody hell,” he hissed. “There a car free?”

George took a couple of steps backwards to survey the station car park. “Yep, do you want to drive?”

“I’d rather not.”

George drove rather recklessly for someone with a toddler in the car, but Peter clung onto Rosie tightly, burying her in his coat, thoroughly distracted by thoughts of tigers and bank raids, of Morse shot or stabbed or drugged or whatever else had happened to him in the past year. The journey felt slow, and it was one that was well ingrained into his mind after having to pick up various injured colleagues over his time working at Cowley (most of whom had been Morse).

When they pulled up in the car park, Peter was out of the car before George even had a chance to put the handbrake on. He wrapped his coat around himself and Rosie against the bitter chill, pacing towards the entrance with George jogging to catch up with him. A million things were racing through his head as he stormed into the reception, all of them involving Morse and blood and the fear of losing him. It was at moments like these that Peter realised he had a bank of vivid memories stored away, of Morse’s injuries, the cold grey of a face that had lost far too much blood, red stains spilling onto white shirts. They all filtered out one by one, swirling in front of his eyes until he could barely see (he walked through the hospital entrance hall using muscle memory alone).

And Hope, too. She was there, images of her triggered by the sterile chemical smell that hospitals tend to have. She was as cold and white as the stiff white hospital sheets she was swaddled in. He could still hear her breath as it rasped through her lips, the way her voice hitched on every word she forced out. All the wires and tubes that fed into her until she was barely the woman he knew anymore. She was looking at him, right into him, holding his hand, telling him that everything would be fine, that Rosie would be fine, that the world wasn’t ending (it was; it fucking _was_ ending, and it had only really started turning again a few months ago). Christ, this wasn’t a good time to spiral, he couldn’t break down right here in the middle of a hospital, he just couldn’t fucking _see_.

But then he _could _see. He could see _Morse_, and this time it wasn’t just in his head.

He was signing something at the front desk, living and breathing, real enough to touch. Peter spluttered something that could have been ‘_Morse’_ but didn’t really come out of his mouth in the correct order.

Morse looked up, revealing a livid bruise on his temple and a number of cuts and scrapes on his cheek. But he was fine, conscious, warm and alive and _safe_. He gave Peter a look as if to say, ‘what the hell are you doing here?’

“Thursday called the station and said you were here, but I didn’t realise it was just a flying bloody visit.”

“It’s just concussion,” Morse shrugged like it was no big deal, like Peter hadn’t just assumed he was inches from death. “They would normally keep me in for observation; Thursday told me he’d pick me up in the morning, but since it’s Christmas Eve, I thought I’d get out of everyone’s way.”

A part of Peter wanted to slap Morse, listening to him talk about himself like he didn’t matter at all, but he suspected it was the exact same part of him that wanted to hold Morse and never let go so that nothing bad could happen to him ever again.

Peter let out a strained sigh, his heart still pounding nineteen to the dozen. “Let’s get you home then.”

\- - - - -

George drove significantly slower this time round, especially because both Rosie and Morse were dozing in the back of the car, the former nestled against Peter’s chest and the latter slouched beside him, his head drooping ever closer to Peter’s shoulder every time the car turned left.

“Right, this is me just up ahead.” Peter gestured towards his flat, and George pulled over at the kerb. “Thanks for the lift.”

“No problem, mate.”

Peter tried to clamber out of his seat without stirring Rosie, but it meant that Morse, who had been leaning on him for most of the journey, slouched to the side in his absence. He half woke up, still groggy, unaware of his surroundings. “You’re coming with me too,” Peter insisted.

Morse looked confused. “I… No, don’t trouble yourself with me, I’ll be fine. _Really_.”

“Don’t trouble myself?” Peter laughed. “Look, this is the least I can bloody do; I’m not having you drinking away a concussion on your own.”

“But-”

“And I’d invited you over for Christmas Eve anyway, if you remember, so don’t think you can wiggle out of it just because you’ve had a hospital visit.”

Morse relented, then. He wobbled slightly as he stood up and the blood rushed to his head, but Peter was there to steady him. He thanked George one last time, wishing him an early Merry Christmas, before he drove off back to the station, tyres struggling against the layer of snow coating the road.

When they got inside, Peter couldn’t help but wrap his arms around Morse. There was something about being able to stand next to him, to touch him and remind himself that Morse was real and definitely alive, that Peter found comforting. And, in any case, Morse provided welcome warmth to his numb fingers.

“I really am fine,” Morse insisted, muffled by Peter’s scarf.

“Mhmm.”

“Can I-”

“Nope. ’M not done yet.”

Rosie was what ended up forcing Peter to let go, with an impatient wriggle in his arms and a cry of ‘_Dada_’. It was all he could do to keep her awake while he bathed her and brushed her teeth, and she made sure to keep her limbs as floppy as possible as he pulled her into her pyjamas, just to make things difficult for him.

(He could feel Morse’s eyes on him the entire time. He stood against the doorframe as Peter read Rosie a bedtime story and, although Peter’s back was to him, he could _feel_ it, like cold water dripping down his neck.)

“I was worried, you know,” Peter said later, once Rosie was settled. He was stirring a can of baked beans in a pan on the stove as Morse sat on the worktop holding a bag of frozen peas to the purple lump forming on his forehead. “As soon as George said you were in hospital, I assumed the worst.”

“Sorry.”

“Not your fucking fault, is it? You’ve got to do your job.” He fixed his gaze on the beans, worried that he’d start crying if he looked at Morse. “It just made me think a lot. About you getting hurt and how much that terrified me. I hadn’t been in a hospital since… since…” _Hope. _“It was all a bit much.”

He heard Morse shift uncomfortably, opening his mouth to speak, but Peter cut him off.

“If you apologise again, I swear to God I’m eating all of these beans by myself and letting you starve.”

“_Really_?”

Peter shot him a withering look. “Put the bloody toast on, will you?”

“I thought you said you were going to be looking after me?” Morse smirked.

“You said it yourself, it’s just concussion. You’re hardly quadriplegic.” And then, this time more forcefully, “_toast_, Morse.”

It was a miracle they managed to cobble together a meal at all. It gave Peter some comfort to know that Morse was eating, at least, because at times, he would barely have one meal a day and then expect to be conscious the next morning. There was nothing but the sounds of cutlery scraping against plates for quite a while, allowing some of the thoughts he’d pushed away earlier to start seeping back in.

Hope. Morse. Blood. Hospital beds and whirring machinery. _Tell Rosie I love her, Pete_. _Make sure she knows_. Then Morse again, and yet more blood. _Man down_. _Man down_.

“Mind if I put some music on?” Peter choked out amongst it all, desperate for something to clear his head. “I can’t promise any Verdi.”

Morse shrugged, but didn’t object, which was as good as could be expected. On his way back from the record player (currently playing enough of a muffled tune to blur out the things Peter didn’t want to process just yet) he poured out some whiskey for them both and handed Morse a glass. Well earned, he would say, after the day they’d had.

“What’s this?”

“The song?” Morse nodded. “It’s the Beatles, you absolute idiot. You can’t be telling me you’ve never once in your life heard Twist and Shout?”

Morse stared at him blankly as if that were something completely normal to admit.

“Christ, _someone’s_ full of festive spirit, aren’t they?”

“Well you’re the one who invited me over.”

“Yes, and I’m not going to sit here and watch you feel sorry for yourself.” And then, after talking himself out of it, then back into it, then out of it again in a matter of seconds (and it really was one of the most spectacularly awful ideas he’d ever had) Peter blurted out, “dance with me.”

His words sat in the air between them for quite a while, heavy, as Morse looked at him with furrowed brows and wide eyes. After a moment, he shrugged and gestured to the lump on his head, as if he hadn’t been explaining how insignificant it was not two hours ago in the hospital. “I… I’m not much of a dancer,” he added to his argument.

“I don’t care, Morse, nor am I. But it’s Christmas” He swallowed back the last of his drink (as well as his last shred of self-control) and stood up, reaching his hands out towards Morse. “Come on, _Sergeant_.”

Morse’s mouth opened slightly at the remark; there was something in his expression that Peter hadn’t seen for a long time. He rolled his eyes but took Peter’s hand and let himself be pulled to his feet. “Know that I hate you, though,” he grumbled, putting down his drink.

“Sure.”

Nobody with eyes connected to their brain would call it a real _dance_, but it got Morse onto his feet, and he was no longer moping quite so dramatically. It was a start. And it was just them, in Peter’s living room, padding across the carpet to music neither of them were really listening to, turning in circles around each other. Peter hung some tinsel around Morse’s shoulders, and smiled.

It felt like family, and _home_, in a way that Peter didn’t think he’d ever feel again. He felt Hope there at the back of his mind, grinning at him with rosy cheeks, reminding him how to love, reminding him that some things were so precious that they should be held on to even if he didn’t think he deserved them.

So, when the record finished and Morse met his eyes for just a little too long, Peter took the tinsel around his shoulders and used it to pull the two of them closer. He hung there for just a moment, reminding himself what the warmth of Morse resting against him felt like, tasting the whiskey in his breath, but then Morse let out the softest of whimpers so Peter touched their lips together without a second thought.

\- - - - -

Peter was beautiful like this, Morse had been thinking all evening.

He was dressed in a soft woollen jumper and a pair of jeans that he wouldn’t have been caught dead in before America. His hair was curling where it had dried from being out in the snow, his cheeks flushed pink; he smelt of winter and Christmas and warmth and cologne. And he let Peter put some music on, despite his pounding head, purely because he wanted to see the man dance.

Well he certainly got his wish.

He wasn’t sure whether it was the head injury or the alcohol that made him think Peter was looking at him differently. Lingering, warm. Closer and closer and…

Oh.

Morse was pulled right back to a year ago, with Peter all over him, lips against his jaw, the smell of his cologne filling his nostrils. Except it was now, and Peter was looking at him expectantly. Nervously. (Maybe he never left; maybe Morse hallucinated the entire thing and Peter had always been here after all.)

“Morse?” Peter breathed. It would be so easy to tilt his head, fall back in without a moment’s hesitation.

_“This girl, Hope, she’s pregnant. I’m gonna make a go of it in America.”_

_“It’s the right thing, Morse. It’s not personal.” _

_“You know we couldn’t have lasted, don’t you?”_

And then, _“she was everything. I can’t even describe her she was just… she was just so her. So stubborn and funny and beautiful.”_

It took every ounce of self-control he had left in him to push Peter away.

As soon as he did, and saw Peter’s eyes widen in shock, he wished he hadn’t. He wanted to bundle Peter up in his arms and say _no, I didn’t mean it, I’m sorry, I love you, I love you, I love you_. “I can’t be her,” he said instead, and his voice cracked.

“You don’t need to be,” he breathed, desperate. “That’s not what this is about, that’s not what this has _ever_ been about.”

Morse swallowed and willed his voice not to wobble. “Peter…” _Just kiss him; why do you always make these things so complicated?_ “I can’t do this if… if it doesn’t mean anything.”

“Morse-”

“_Peter_. Look, what we had before… I miss it, I _do_, but I can’t do that again.”

God, he was _crying_, he realised as Peter brushed a tear from his cheek with the tenderest of touches. (He leaned into it, it was impossible not to; feeling Peter’s skin against his own was a gateway drug.)

“Why not?”

Well _that_ was a question. Christ. Morse let out a tense breath. “Because I fell in love with you, Peter. Because I _fucking_ love you, and I know that’s not what you wanted from this. We were just something that happened when we’d drunk too much, you never asked for me to spend every damn second since falling for you. I… I just can’t let this happen again if it doesn’t mean anything to you, because it means the fucking _world_ to me. I’m sorry.”

He saw a flicker of a smile on Peter’s face. “You apologise for the weirdest of things, Morse.” Then he used the sleeves of his jumper to wipe away Morse’s tears (as well as a few of his own). “I’ve never known someone to say sorry for being in love before. Although, by that rule, I-I’d have to be apologising too.”

It took Morse a second to realise what Peter was implying, and one more for him to realise that he must have interpreted it wrong because that was _impossible_. “No, Peter, you’re… I don’t think you…”

Peter’s hands were cupping his face, and he looked up at Morse with wide eyes, _pleading_ eyes. “I’ve always been in love with you, Morse! Half of bloody _Oxford’s_ a bit in love with you and none of us ever know why because you’re _you_ and you think you don’t deserve anyone’s appreciation but _Christ_ you’re the most annoying, stubborn, beautiful fucking person I’ve ever met and if you don’t believe that then I don’t know what the fuck you think I’ve been trying to hint at you for the last two months!”

Morse let out a breath he hadn’t realised he was holding in, but it sounded more like a sob.

“I loved you back then. So fucking much that it scared me, because of… well, you know what my childhood was like. I’d fall asleep next to you and have this horrible feeling I was slipping, and I’d tell myself I couldn’t do it again because I knew what it meant about me and I couldn’t admit it to myself. But then every time we went for a drink I’d forget about all that because just being _near_ you switches my bloody brain off.”

They were so close now that he could feel every word Peter said vibrating in the air, sending chills down his spine.

“When I met Hope I just clung to her because I was so scared of the way you made me feel, needed someone to help me forget you, and slowly I started to love her as well. And I _did_ love her. Still do, I’m sure I always will. I just loved you too, I suppose. I think I’ve got enough love for two, hm?”

“Mhmm.” It was the only sound Morse trusted himself to make as he snaked his arms around Peter’s waist and let their lips fall together.

Peter’s mouth hadn’t changed. It was just as warm and safe as it always had been, with the same tang of smoke and whiskey. It was as gentle as their first kiss and as desperate as their last had been, but this, _this_, felt more like a beginning than anything Morse had ever experienced.

“Missed you,” he gasped when they broke apart for just a moment, and Morse reacquainted himself with the curve of Peter’s neck. “_Love_ _you_,” he’d pant between kisses, and every time Peter would say “I love you too” in return.

He found himself being pushed down onto the sofa, pressed into the cushions by silky hands as they unbuttoned his shirt and pushed it back over his shoulders, and he was pulling Peter down onto him in return, clinging to him as if he could stand up and leave at any moment. He buried his hands into Peter’s hair like he’d been wanting to do for months, desperate to feel it all soft and satiny without it’s usual pomade. He pulled at it just slightly, which was enough to cause Peter to make some really rather obscene noises. They sent fire through Morse’s veins, fried them all up until he was just a shell, until the corners of his vision blurred to create a glowing vignette around Peter’s face.

There were hands all over him, and they very nearly burned. They started, palms flat, on his shoulders, but Peter’s fingers curled as they trailed down Morse’s chest, fingernails scraping skin. After a while, Morse happily laid back and let Peter’s mouth take him apart piece by piece, starting with the soft skin where his ear met the top of his jaw, working down his neck, his chest, and beyond.

He didn’t believe in fate but, perhaps, though they’d found each other in a backwards, roundabout sort of way, this was exactly what was intended for them.

\- - - - -

“Hope knew, you know,” Peter murmured against his chest later.

“Hm?”

“About us. I think she always suspected it. When I opened the letter from you on the bus, the one with the bonds in it, I fucking lost it, I just sobbed. She gave me a look and I could tell she knew.”

“And?”

“She didn’t care. She knew I loved her, I guess. She told me I should write to you, but I couldn’t find the words.”

Morse pulled Peter a little closer, as if to say _it’s okay. We got there in the end_.

“That’s why I wanted to find you, when I first got back to Oxford. Because I know she’d have wanted me to.”

“I wish I’d met her,” Morse mumbled, and this time he really meant it.

“Me too. You’d have loved her.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this was fun to write. I impulsively switched to Peter's POV for most of the chapter for plot reasons but also because i love Peter jakes with my entire heart (& i didn't mean for him to get angsty but that's what u get).  
I really powered this chapter out and in my head it's divided up into 1) plot-centric bits that I wrote all in one go aka the first half of the chapter and 2) emotional bits i wrote while either exhausted or tipsy or both aka the second half of the chapter. It worked quite well as a system but also means I've absolutely not proofread this whatoever so im sorry for any grammar errors i've subjected you guys to.
> 
> idk when the next chapter will be up - it's technically still part of the main plot but could also be read as a kind of epilogue if you want to. It's basically just Christmas (& we can ignore the fact that i'm writing all of this in late february.)
> 
> chapter title from someone new by hozier
> 
> right i'm going to stop rambling before I fall asleep on top of my laptop thank u for reading this if you've made it this far.


	5. the art of scraping through

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You’d think,” Peter panted, “that being a Sergeant, you’d have a better aim, Morse.”
> 
> “I’ll have you know my aim’s perfectly fine, thank you very much!” Morse sent another snowball flying.
> 
> “That’s rich coming from someone who’s last throw just hit me on the ankle.”
> 
> [christmas dinner, domestic bliss but also the boys being sad]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> umm... surprise?
> 
> Over a year after i said i was going to, this fic is finally finished!! I can only apologise to everyone who's been waiting for this chapter but uni is hectic and life is full of distractions. It's taken me a lot of effort to get back into writing and not hating all of my wips so it's been a long few days powering this out i can't lie.
> 
> Enjoy!
> 
> (I can only apologise if this is littered with typos. I wrote the majority of this chapter a good few months ago and to be completely honest i just cannot be fucked to proofread it)

**WEDNESDAY 25TH DECEMBER 1968**

When Morse stirred to find a warm arm slung around his waist, he didn’t trust himself enough to open his eyes. Perhaps if he did, his hopes would be proven wrong, and the stinging realisation that it was someone else by his side would hit. The longer he delayed that and lived in this naïve bliss, the better.

But the smell of smoke _did_ feel rather familiar, and just as his brain was starting to kick into gear and remember last night, Rosie’s muffled cries from the other room brought him back to reality.

The body beside him, _Peter_ (he was sure of that now, and the thought sent a jolt of excitement right through him) shifted instinctively at the noise, then groaned at the prospect of getting up to tend to his wailing daughter. “Merry bloody Christmas,” he croaked sleepily and kissed Morse on the cheek before clambering over him unceremoniously to get out of bed. “The demon needs feeding, don’t miss me too much.”

Once he’d left the room, the bed started losing heat alarmingly fast, so Morse decided to try and extract himself from the sheets and get dressed before he turned to ice. He sat up blearily and surveyed his surroundings through eyes that hadn’t quite lost the haze of sleep yet. The dull ache of his head injury became sharper for a moment as he acclimatised to being upright.

Peter’s bedroom was neat and orderly, but not minimalist. Smooth and sleek but not cold. Though he hadn’t lived here for long and didn’t have enough space to make himself at home, he’d still managed to make every part of the flat feel so _him_.

A shiver distracted him from this particular train of thought, and he realised that the only clothes he had were the ones he’d been wearing to work the previous day, which were crumpled up somewhere on the floor. He rummaged through a nearby chest of drawers until he found a set of pyjamas that looked tatty enough that Peter wouldn’t mind him stealing them, and attempted to put them on while his still-asleep legs refused to cooperate.

Now much warmer, Morse sunk back into bed. There was still a bit of residual heat there, just enough that it was a welcome change from the chill of the bedroom.

About a quarter of an hour later, Peter returned with two steaming mugs. “Rosie’s conked out again now I’ve fed her, so we’ve got a bit more time until all hell breaks loose. Are those my pyjamas?”

“Mhm.”

“I’ve got nicer ones than those you can borrow if you like. I’m pretty sure that top is more hole than shirt, God knows why I’ve still got it.”

“I like it,” Morse mumbled as he took a sip of tea and placed the mug down on the bedside table before leaning against Peter. “It’s comfy. Smells of you.”

“Have you seen outside?”

Morse shook his head, confused. He tugged back the curtain from where he sat and was instantly dazzled by the blinding whiteness of sun gleaming off a blanket of snow. A white Christmas, and the perfect kind, too, where the snowing is finished by morning and the sun has a chance to stake its claim over the day as well.

If this were a film, he’d call it unrealistic. Nothing ever pans out this perfectly in real life.

Except today, it seemed.

How fitting.

“We don’t need to be at the Thursdays’ until about one.” Peter’s arms were around him, all the warmth he needed, and it was so gloriously easy to sink back against him, let those hands run up and down his forearms absentmindedly.

Later, he’d probably see the irony in this feeling so easy after so many months of making things very difficult for themselves. For now, though, Morse wasn’t doing much thinking at all.

“You probably need to swing past your place at some point to pick up some clothes, don’t you?” Morse nodded. He could get away with borrowing Peter’s pyjamas, but Thursday might get suspicious if he turned up to Christmas dinner in one of Jakes’ polo necks. “I’ll understand if you need to get away from Rosie for a bit. I know you’re not so used to her, and she can be a bit much-”

“She’s your daughter, Peter. I know you two come as one package, I’ve known that from the start. When I say I want _you_, I mean the two of you, not just you plus babysitting duties.”

Peter made a strangled sort of sound into his mug.

“And if I can survive that first week you stayed with me back in October, I think I can manage a morning, don’t you?”

“Christ,” Peter choked, “I don’t fucking deserve you.”

Morse shrugged. “It’s nothing, honestly…”

“No, I really don’t think you understand. Nobody wants-” Peter interrupted, gesturing vaguely at himself “nobody wants _this_. No girl wants to start dating somebody knowing there’s a child back at home that they’d be taking on as well. I’m unemployed, widowed, living off savings until I can get Rosie into nursery and find a job, I’m damaged goods. Nobody’s looking for that. You have no idea how…”

The arms around Morse were tighter now, and quivering. He turned to face Peter and bring him in closer as he struggled for words.

“I just bloody love you, okay? And Rosie adores you too and seeing you two together sort of makes me want to cry, but in a good way.”

Morse felt warm fingers track circles on his back through one of the holes in his shirt as Peter held him, and the two of them finished their tea like that, the sheets pooled in their laps. “I love you too. And, uh, Merry Christmas.”

“It’s probably a good thing we’re not at your place, or else there’d be nothing for breakfast. I can live with dry toast once or twice, but that sort of breakfast on Christmas Day is depressing even by _your_ standards.”

“I’m sure Mrs Thursday will be glad I’ve got someone to feed me up again.”

Peter sighed. “I really ought to teach you to bloody cook.”

“Mm. You’re still on breakfast duties today though. D’you have bacon?”

“I honestly hate you.”

Rosie woke up for a second time once Peter had started clattering about at the stove, so Morse plucked her from the cot and brought her into the kitchen, where she calmed at the sight of her father. (In a somewhat inappropriate novelty Christmas apron, hair still sticking up in unruly waves. Morse wished he had a camera on him.)

She was a comforting weight in Morse’s arms, despite her squirming. Even the occasional prod at his face was tolerable when it was the price paid for getting to see her smile.

“I’ve got a stack of Christmas records on the counter by the sofa,” Peter gestured behind them, still busy with the bacon as it began to spit aggressively at him. “How about ‘_Once In Royal’_? That’s an alright one.”

For once, their music taste sort of overlapped. Everyone loves carols. He slipped the record from its sleeve with his free hand and set it spinning, letting the voices ring out through the flat.

In a normal year, he might play a carol or two to himself at home, or at his desk in the office, because the Christmas Day shift is empty enough that no one would complain about his music.

Today, though, the sense of family and community that the festive season brought made itself known to Morse for the first time in many years. He had a _reason_ to take the day off for the holiday. To have a proper family dinner, even if it was the Thursdays’ they were intruding on. To let himself enjoy what others had been doing every year before.

Perhaps it was all a little sentimental, verging on sappy, but if there is any time of year when that’s allowed, it’s now.

Morse felt the world slow around him as the higher descant part rose up from the mass of voices for the final verse, but that blissful moment was shattered as Rosie managed to grab a fistful of his hair and tug.

“Ow!” He put on an exaggerated look of shock and gave Rosie’s cheeks a playful squeeze. “I’ll have you know, assaulting a police officer’s a criminal offence, you little rascal.”

“She’s a serial hair-puller, this one,” Peter laughed as he walked in with two steaming plates of breakfast, plus a dish of baked beans and toast cut up into little squares for Rosie. “It won’t be long before I go bald if she keeps it up.”

“Is that the excuse you’re using these days?”

“Oh piss off, I’m not balding!”

“You sure about that?”

“Wait, I’m not, am I?” Peter pawed at his scalp, paranoid.

Morse chuckled, “I’m just joking.”

“Bastard.”

“Is that the sort of language you’re teaching poor Rosie?”

In replacement, Peter stuck his middle finger up at Morse, which of course, Rosie saw and copied _immediately_. Perfect.

Peter glared at him

\- - - - -

Morse didn’t ask for a present, nor did Peter, but they got each other one anyway. Morse unwrapped a scarf that Peter wrapped around him as soon as it was free from the brown wrapping paper. The wool was soft and comforting around his neck, and Rosie snuggled into it as she settled on his lap.

There was another package too, a small envelope smudged with paint in places. Inside was a card decorated in what looked like every colour of paint Rosie had been able to get her hands on. Morse grinned. “You’ve got quite the artist on your hands!”

“I really have, she almost gave the whole living room a new paint job the second I took my eyes off her when we made this.” And then, to Rosie: “Do you want to show Morse what’s in your picture?”

Morse held it out to her, and Rosie reached out to grab it from him. She prodded at a reddish blob in the centre of the card. “Dada!” And a swirling rainbow splodge emerging from Peter’s head was apparently Rosie.

“What about that one there?” Peter pointed to a blue sort of shape in the corner. “Who’s that?”

Rosie hesitated for a moment, tracing her finger around the outline of the shape. Then she wriggled and turned her head to look up at Morse and pointed a finger in his face. “Moss!”

“I didn’t tell her to put that on there, you know.” Peter edged closer. “She added it herself. “

Morse didn’t really know how to respond to that.

This tiny being in his arms, this squirming, noisy, messy little kid that arrived in his life mere months ago purely by chance, Morse was part of her family now in a way he’d never dreamed was possible. Two timelines that on paper should never have converged, Peter’s past with Morse and his future with his daughter, somehow aligned right here and now on Christmas Day.

This was his life, here and now on Peter’s too-small sofa with snow dusting Oxford’s rooftops and a pot of tea brewing in the kitchen.

Morse felt a bit silly as he passed Peter his present, because after all that sentimental nonsense all Peter got in return was a novelty cowboy hat Morse had picked up from a charity shop on the way home from work last week. It had a Sheriff’s star on it and everything. Peter threw him a withering look as he unwrapped it, and chuckled as he sat it onto his head, and honestly it rather suited him.

“Trust you to look good even wearing _that_.”

“What can I say,” Peter shrugged. “I’m just traditionally handsome.”

\- - - - -

They wrapped Rosie up in a puffy snowsuit and mittens with a too-large bobble hat on her head, and headed off towards Morse’s flat, which they would stop by just briefly so that Morse could put on a clean shirt before they walked over to the Thursdays’.

The compacted snow had started to freeze on the pavements, making them incredibly slippery, especially as Morse was still wearing his usual work shoes. The road was a little safer, though, with the few brave cars daring to travel having churned the snow into brown slush.

Rosie’s cheeks turned bright red in the chill, but she didn’t seem uncomfortable. She gazed out in awe at the blinding white scenery from her perch in Peter’s arms.

“I never asked,” said Morse, “does it snow over in Wyoming?”

Peter chuckled. “I’ll tell you don’t know real snow until you’ve seen it in America. We almost got snowed in last winter, and they don’t send snow ploughs out as far as the farm.” A moment later, he added, “Rosie never really got to see it though. She was only little then; Hope took her out before the conditions got too treacherous, but after that we just stayed inside until the worst of it had melted away.”

“I can’t say I’m jealous.”

“As you should. You don’t want to know how restless the horses got after being cooped up in the stable for a week and a half.”

Once at home, Morse grabbed the first clean shirt he could find, and pulled a thick jumper over it, though it did little to eliminate the chill that had already seeped into him on the walk. Once he’d layered up with a coat, gloves and Peter’s scarf, he felt as if he’d been dressed up like a snowman.

Before they left, Morse set Rosie’s card on the mantel, in pride of place beside the photo of him and his mother. It looked so _right_ there that it may as well have been there for years.

They decided to take a shortcut through the park, where the snow was pristine and barely touched, all powdery underfoot. The wide expanse of white glowed in an almost ethereal way, and Morse was so caught up in the beauty of it that he didn’t notice Peter disappearing from his side until a snowball hit him squarely in the back of the neck, sending a plume of ice into the air around him.

Peter cheered, ever the show-off, and bent down to start forming another snowball with the hand that wasn’t busy carrying Rosie.

And before either of them knew it, things had descended into an all-out war.

“You’d think,” Peter panted, “that being a Sergeant, you’d have a better aim, Morse.”

“I’ll have you know my aim’s perfectly fine, thank you very much!” Morse sent another snowball flying.

“That’s rich coming from someone who’s last throw just hit me on the ankle.”

“Well, I’m sure work much better with a revolver, but _unfortunately_ I have to work with the equipment I’ve got.”

Peter sighed. “Alright then. But we’ll agree that I’ve won, right?”

“I wouldn’t be so confident if I were you.” Morse raised an eyebrow. “I think it’ll have to go to the umpire; what does Rosie think?”

Somehow, amongst all the chaos of the snowball fight, Rosie had fallen fast asleep in Peter’s arms.

It was a draw, then, Morse insisted.

\- - - - -

“D’you remember much of your mum?” Peter asked unepectedly, once they had brushed the worst of the snow from each other’s coats.

It came so out of the blue that Morse didn’t know how to answer for quite some time. “Bits of her,” was all he could come up with at first. “Just sort of flickers here and there. I- I don’t remember her voice. Just softness… love.”

Peter seemed to hold Rosie tighter now. An absent finger stroked across her cheek.

“But it’s okay, not remembering her. You get used to it. It’s enough to know that what time I did have with her was happy.” Peter didn’t respond, just kept walking with his eyes steadily fixed on Rosie’s head which wobbled from side to side with each step. “I know Rosie won’t remember much of Hope, if anything at all, but she’ll grow to know her through you, you know that, right?”

“What do you mean?”

“All that love you have for Hope, you’ll pass it on to her. You’ll pass on the memories you have, she’ll see the photographs, and she’ll fill in the gaps. So long as you keep Hope alive in the memories you two make, Rosie will always have a mother.”

Peter choked, “fucking Hell Morse.”

“Sorry-”

“No, thank you. Thank you.” He laughed and brushed something from his eye. “Jesus, we’re a right pair, aren’t we? Everyone’s having their Christmas dinners and we’re out here talking about dead people.”

“Oh, you know me. Ever the optimist.”

\- - - - -

The Thursday household was warm and welcoming; the smell of cooking spilled from the door as soon as Joan opened it to him, so different from the not-so-long-ago mornings of Morse picking her father up from work, a hidden undercurrent of flirting between the two of them.

Sam, back from his training for the week, already seemed like he’d been making quite some progress through the drinks cupboard, and a paper hat hung askew across his face. All four Thursdays fawned over Rosie in her warm bobble hat, mittens and snowsuit which were quickly discarded now that they were inside. It was quite a challenge to keep her from the roaring fireplace until Thursday dug out the old baby gate from a pile in the loft, where it had been since Sam was little, using it to cordon off the hearth from Rosie’s curious hands.

With the turkey resting in the kitchen, they settled in the living room with music in the background and drinks in hand. Rosie was passed to Sam, then Joan who fell victim of yet another hair-pulling incident, then she settled in Win’s arms with Thursday gazing down on her fondly. She was enjoying all the attention, and Peter watched on with shining eyes from the other side of the room where he sat on the armchair with Morse perched by his side, leaning across the back of the chair with an absent hand tracing hidden circles on Peter’s back.

While Thursday took a turn carrying Rosie, Win reached behind the sofa to pull out a small package wrapped neatly in brown paper. “Now, I know you said not to get anything, Peter, but I do miss knitting kiddie’s clothes and I just couldn’t resist. There’s just a few things in here to keep her warm over the winter.”

Peter unwrapped a little blue cardigan and some tiny yellow mittens and broke out into a warm smile. “These are beautiful, Mrs Thursday. You really shouldn’t have.”

“How many times, dear, call me Win. And it was really no trouble, I needed a little project to keep me busy and this was perfect.”

A sharp trill broke through from the kitchen, causing all of them to startle. “That’ll be for the turkey. Sam, I’ll need you laying the table, and Joan can you help me with the vegetables?”

\- - - - -

Soon the dining table was laden with dishes and plates, and everyone was squeezed around it like sardines in a tin. Thursday had fished an old highchair from the attic to sit Rosie in and keep her from wriggling around.

The dining room was warm, cosy, so full of love that there was scarcely room to breathe.

Morse thought of Peter’s first day in Oxford. Of hearing his voice after far too long. Leaving him at home to eat Sunday dinner with the Thursdays, returning to see him asleep on the sofa, bathed in the glow of sunset and wondering whether it was the most beautiful thing in the world.

It was, he was sure of that now, but it turned out that the beauty wasn’t just that one freeze frame held in time.

No, it followed Peter around like a cloud, everything he did, everyone he’d known and loved, every moment Morse had spent with him, it was all part of this vast tapestry of lovely, warm, _beautiful_ things. Oxford was thick with it, Wyoming too, probably.

Peter was cutting turkey into tiny pieces for Rosie (who wore most of the Christmas dinner on her face) his hair hanging down in waves and the glow of alcohol in his cheeks, laughing along to the story Win was telling him. Their legs were pressed together under the table, and all of it was so beautiful that it ached.

Things had a way of just working themselves out, it seemed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope u lot enjoyed this. Happy early new year i guess!


End file.
